


Seven Days of Grace

by Nimtheriel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, So done, basically these two being dorks in love and sam is just, one chapter per day for a week, unrelated (mostly) oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7423804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimtheriel/pseuds/Nimtheriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lots of things can happen when you're on a supernatural road trip with an angel riding shotgun. Seven days of Dean and Cas oneshots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nothing Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing Wrong - After Sam leaves in a huff, Dean gets drunk and Cas is left to take care of him. T for alcohol usage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Seven Days of Grace_ is a collection of one- and two-shots relating to Dean and Cas. Each minific will have a short description and a rating. Yes, you get one per day. Because I don't sleep. You're welcome. All characters belong to the Supernatural series, which I do not own. If I did... Well. You'd notice.

The night was dark and stormy, which as far as Cas could tell perfectly reflected the mood of the human sitting next to him at the bar.

"All I'm saying," Dean growled, deliberately setting his glass on the polished countertop, "is that he's overreacting. 'M not sayin' I was right, but I'm saying Sammy had no reason to bail. Right, Cas?"

The angel tore his gaze from the television set across the room and focused on his friend. "Your blood alcohol content is reaching dangerous levels," he observed weakly.

Dean shot him a lopsided grin. "That's the idea. Hey, can angels get hammered?"

Cas sent a wordless prayer of thanks to his father that Dean had accepted the change in subject. The truth of the matter was that he didn't know what was right or wrong concerning Dean's latest escapade. He didn't entirely disagree with Sam for leaving, either. But that's not what Dean needed to hear right now, and he had too much respect for the man to feed him lies and half-truths. "If my host body imbibes enough alcohol, his altered brain chemistry will affect my mental function, yes."

"Awesome," Dean muttered, taking another long drink from whatever cheap booze he had sloshing around in that glass. "You should do it."

"Now?" Cas asked hesitantly.

"Yeah, why not? You an' me, night off the job. C'mon, it'll be great."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

Dean fixed him with a vaguely puzzled stare. Cas could almost hear the alcohol pumping through his friend's veins, slowing and muddying his thoughts. "Why th' hell not?"

"You need someone to ensure you manage to stagger safely back to the motel after you are finished indulging your guilt."

"Guilt," Dean sneered. "I'm not guilty." He reached for his beer again, but instead managed to knock it over. "Shit. Why would I be guilty? Just a bloodthirsty fang, man. I offed him. Big fucking deal, right? So maybe he was cleanin' up, maybe he wasn't. Sam wanted to 'give him a chance', but the only chance I saw was for that bloodsucker to kill more people. Human people, Cas." He stared down at the puddle of spilled beer on the countertop, eyes fierce.

Cas placed a tentative hand on Dean's shoulder, trying to communicate feelings of understanding and support. This was a gesture he'd learned from Sam, so he was pretty sure of its accuracy. To his mild surprise, Dean didn't shrug him off. "Dean. You did what you felt was right. I'm not one to say whether it was or was not a mistake, but you pursued your interpretation of justice to the full extent of your abilities. That is...admirable."

"Yeah," Dean muttered. "Yeah. See, that's what I love about you, man. You always know what it's like."

Feeling more confident at this minor victory, Cas took the next step. "Now it's late, and we should return to our rooms for the evening."

"Jus' one more round for me an' my best angel," Dean slurred, reaching for his wallet.

Cas blinked, the wallet was safely in his hand. "That's what you said three drinks past. It's time to go."

"Not cool, man. Give it back."

"Dean, we're leaving."

"No…"

With a slight sigh, Cas reached out and touched Dean's shoulder again, this time to fly them both back to room 126 at the Nite Owl Motel down the street. The transition was sharp, from the brightly lit interior of a bar packed with raucous drunks to the dark, silent room, the two scenes separated only by the soft flutter of wings.

It quickly became apparent that Dean couldn't really stand on his own. He clutched Cas for support, almost throwing the angel to the floor, as he swayed unsteadily. "Hey," he protested, "I wanted to try the Car'bbean Velvet. Take us back."

Cas didn't answer, instead using his energy to pick up Dean's alcohol-saturated body and lay him down gently in one of the beds. Dean's response was a faint groan. "Cas, baby, are you tryin' to take advantage?"

"No, Dean, I am merely-"

"Cause sometimes you make me wonder, you know?"

Cas tried to draw away, but Dean's hand was on his arm, keeping him close. A strange heat flushed Castiel's body. "Dean…"

"Don't you ever wonder?" Dean asked, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "What's wrong with a little happiness, huh? What's wrong with us…"

Cas didn't try to pull away again. "There's nothing wrong."

"Exactly." Dean's voice had dropped so low that Cas needed to lean closer to hear. "...why I like you...nothing wrong…" He yawned cavernously. "Hey Cas…

"I am still here."

"You ever kissed anyone? Besides Meg, I mean."

There it was, that heartbeat that he didn't need, so stumbling and inconsistent. "I fail to see how that's rel-" he started to lie, but he couldn't finish the sentence. Dean stretched his neck up, bridging the slight distance between them and pressing his lips against Cas's.

There was the taste of alcohol, heady and bitter. There was that feeling of fire in his veins. There was a great, terrible sense that this was the end, and he was long lost.

Dean fell back on his pillow with a deep sigh. He was already asleep.

This left the angel alone in the room, staring strickenly down at this strange, broken mortal and knowing that his own end was beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you lovely Destiel shippers for reading! Just so's you know, not all of these are going to be about Dean and Cas being together romantically, although most of them will at least imply it ;) I am, of course, taking suggestions if you wanna drop me a message or comment. Carry on.


	2. Nothing Wrong Pt II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean wakes to a bad hangover and some serious regrets.

The next morning was a sorry affair.

Dean woke to a hangover like a construction crew in his skull, and for a moment it was all he could do to lie still and try to think through the pain. Something had happened last night…

"You are awake. How do you feel?" Cas's voice, normally a welcome sound, was a railroad spike being driven into his ear. Dean only moaned in response.

"I thought as much." Was that a note of smugness he detected?

"Cas," he croaked, "you can be as self-righteous as you want just as soon as I've had coffee. Until then, I'm begging you to keep your voice down." He tried to open one eye - a mistake. Who the hell invented sunlight, anyways?

He heard the slight swish of a trenchcoat as Cas moved closer. A cool hand was pressed against his forehead, and suddenly all of the pain vanished. His mouth and throat no longer felt like something died in them.

Dean opened his eyes, startled, and inadvertently met Cas's deep blue. In an instant, in that one instant, everything came rushing back to him. He jerked away, color flooding his face at the memory. What had possessed him - figuratively or literally - to make a move on Cas? And what was he supposed to say now?

Nothing. Nothing was best. Cas was an angel, a goddamn _angel_ , and if he'd even understood what happened last night there was no way anything productive would come from a heart-to-heart now. He'd been so stupid, so _blind_ to allow himself into this position. Cas was like family, _nothing more_. And now in one drunken moment he'd ruined the brotherhood between them.

"Dean." Cas's voice was quiet, containing a hint of apprehension. "You're troubled."

"What the hell am I supposed to be, man? What am I supposed to do after…" He hastily backed up, slamming doors as fast as he could. "Look, I'm sorry about last night. I was completely wasted, and you just… Anyways, it was stupid and it won't happen again." Dean didn't look at Cas as he stood. He didn't trust himself to meet those clear blue eyes, not yet. Standing, he distantly noticed that Cas had at some point removed his boots for him. This unexpected bit of thoughtfulness somehow made everything hurt worse.

"Dean-"

"That's still my name."

"I feel we should discuss-"

"Yeah, well I don't," Dean interrupted brusquely. "It happened, it shouldn't have, it won't again. End of story." He crouched to retrieve his shoes, still deliberately avoiding Cas's gaze.

There was only silence from the angel for a long moment before he finally spoke. His voice was still quiet and level, but it had developed an edge. "What if I don't want it to be the end?"

Dean froze, feeling quite suddenly as though the air had abandoned the room. He had been trying since the apocalypse to deny the growing thrill he got whenever Cas responded to his prayers. Nothing good would come of it. For one thing, Cas couldn't be that person for him. Why would an angel of Heaven ever want to entangle themself in a relationship with a worthless heap of issues like Dean Winchester?

And yet Cas had just said...had just implied…

Slowly, Dean turned. When his eyes met Cas's, his stomach did a slow roll. Those features were so familiar to him, the proud nose and the furrowed brow and the well-defined jaw peppered in yesterday's stubble, but the expression was new. Cas seldom looked so uncertain, nor had that trace of puppyish optimism written across his face.

Finally, Dean found his voice. "What...what are you saying?"

"I am saying that I've learned many things in my time here on earth, and so I think I'm correct in that kissing is a courtship ritual."

Dean tried to fight back the flush that crept up his neck again. "'Courtship', huh? So who's the fair maiden?"

"Dean," Cas said seriously, eyes fixed and intent, "I would be honored if you chose to court me."

His insides were in one solid knot. His mind was spinning wildly with no friction gained. "That," he said, and ran out of words. "Court" Castiel? Date a goddamn angel? Touch, hold, and kiss, oh God, that kiss, even drunk off his ass it had felt like flying.

"Are you sure?" he managed.

"I do not sleep, so I had a good deal of time to think it over. Romantic relations are...complicated for angels and it has taken me far too long to admit what I want." Those blue eyes, those impossibly old and hopelessly young eyes, flashed momentarily with sorrow. "What I want is you, Dean."

Somehow, the distance between them had shrunk. Had one of them moved, or was it some twist of angel magic that Cas was able to reach out and lay a hand on Dean's arm?

Dean gripped the angel's shoulder. "Cas," he said, breath coming faster than normal, trying to communicate everything that needed to be said. That he wanted this, that he didn't know what came next, that deep down he was scared because everyone he cared about always ended up getting hurt.

"Don't worry," Cas said softly. "I learned from the pizza man."

And then there was no fear, no uncertainty, no past or future. Just the feeling of flight and the glowing warmth of an angel's kiss.


	3. Hurting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas is badly hurt, Dean plays nurse.

Dean was idly flipping through his father's journal when he heard the door to the motel scrape open. Knowing Sam wasn't due back until around midnight, he called without looking up, "Hey, Cas, how did the meeting go?"

"Dean." Cas's voice was rough, the name falling half-formed from his lips. Something urgent and scared and pleading bled from that single syllable.

Ice formed in Dean's gut. He raised his gaze, and wished he hadn't. "Oh shit. Goddamn." His feet suddenly were bearing his weight; the chair tipped over backwards from the speed of his ascent. Two steps brought him to where Cas stood - slumped, really - on the threshold. "Come inside, man, before someone sees you." It was fully dark outside, but there was no mistaking the posture of someone badly hurt, nor the undeniable stains seeping through the iconic trenchcoat. As Cas limped into the motel room, Dean drew a sharp breath as the angel's injuries were thrown into harsh light. His face was swelling and bloody, nose crooked. Dark, sticky clumps of hair lay pressed against his scalp at odd angles, and his clothes were in tatters. The way his torso slanted indicated a dislocated shoulder.

Dean shut the door, closing out the cold night, never lifting his gaze from Cas. "What the hell happened?" he breathed. Cas had been meeting with a witness, not jumping into a meat grinder. What could even do something like this to an angel?

"I can...later…" Cas rasped, swaying in place. His features were clouded with pain.

And of course Dean just stood there like an idiot, waiting for Cas to heal himself, waiting for something to relieve this nightmare.

" _Dean._ " Again Cas said his name, edged in hurt and fear. Fear was not a note Dean was accustomed to hearing in that voice.

"Why aren't you healing?" Dean croaked. "Cas…"

"I don't know. My…" The angel stumbled, eyes going unfocused. Dean leapt forward to catch him as his battered figure finally collapsed, limbs giving in to gravity. Cas let out a muffled groan of pain as he fell hard into Dean's arms.

"Okay," Dean said, trying to even out his voice into something soft and reassuring. The angel was lighter than he'd expected. "Okay. Easy there." He lifted Cas and lay him down as gently as he could on one of the beds, ignoring the sharp gasp this elicited. He was trying to avoid the angel's injuries, but this was next to impossible. Cas was more injury than whole.

A step back to survey the damage only made the situation seem worse. Dean didn't even know where to start. Would all that bleeding be deadly to an angel? Was Cas even an angel right now?

_Focus, Winchester. You've played your share of nurse in the past._

He started by easing off Cas's coat and cutting away what little remained of his shirt. Beneath was a tapestry of angry bruises and broken skin. Dean's mouth made a hard line; someone had beaten Castiel. He made a silent vow to find whoever was responsible and force-feed them their own intestines. No one messed with his family. And absolutely no one, fucking _no one_ hurt Cas and lived to see a new dawn.

"S' going on?" Cas mumbled. "Dean, it hurts." His breath came fast and hard, which only seemed to bring him more pain. He tried to sit up and cried out, slumping back down with agony swimming in his eyes.

"Shh, just calm down. You're gonna be okay, you hear? I promise. Just let me fix you up." Dean turned away to go get the medic kit, but not before he saw the childlike trust in Cas's broken face.

The kit was in the trunk of the Impala, so Dean had time to dial Sam's number while he retrieved it. It went to voicemail, which didn't surprise him. Sam always turned his phone off for a stakeout.

"Sammy, Cas is hurt - bad. Get your ass back to the motel as soon as you get this."

Cas's eyes had gone glassy by the time he got back, but at least his breathing had slowed. Dean found a hooked needle and threaded it, pleased that at least his hands weren't shaking. He paused before the largest cut. Cas had probably never gotten stitches before. He should say something reassuring.

"This is going to hurt like hell."

And it did, though Dean was surprised when Cas remained stoically still, eyes tight and teeth clenched, through the whole process.

Stitched, cleaned, and bandaged, the many breaks in Cas's skin were soon seen to. By then Dean had settled into his well-worn role of the calm, practiced surgeon, and he no longer felt quite as overwhelmed.

Cas seemed to regain himself as Dean sifted through his bloody hair, searching out another wound to stitch. "Dean...thank you."

Dean scowled at the long cut in Cas's scalp. "You don't need to thank me; you're family."

The angel winced slightly as Dean began his stitches. "I still cannot believe you consider me to be such after all I've done to you and Sam."

"Can we have this conversation sometime when you're not beat to a pulp?" Dean asked. "It's really hard to be angry at you while you look so pathetic."

Cas managed a weak smile. "Fair enough."

"So you gonna tell me what's up with your angel mojo?"

"I don't know. The...being that did this was exceptionally powerful. It may have had a way of draining me. My power...my wings...they're lost to me right now."

"What being was that, exactly? And how the hell did you make it back here?"

"I'm still unsure of the former...although I have my suspicions." He fell into a brooding silence for a moment as Dean finished cleaning the cut. "I got here by walking."

"In this state?"

"What other choice did I have?"

"Mm. Roll on your side."

"Dean, my shoulder-"

"Yeah, I know. The other side."

Cas complied, and before he could even realize what Dean was about to do the human placed a knee in the small of his back, grabbed his arm, and twisted it back into place. To his great credit, Cas refrained from screaming, though he did shout something in Enochian that Dean suspected was colorful profanity.

"You could have just left it," the angel sulked, curling a tender hand over the afflicted shoulder.

"And leave you in pain for god knows how long?" In truth, Dean was relieved. If Cas could complain, he was doing much better.

All that remained was to set Cas's broken nose (a process which, after his experience with Dean's treatment of dislocated body parts, Cas insisted on doing himself) and clean away the rest of the blood. Finally, Dean handed him a half-full bottle of aspirin and instructed him to "take as many as you need", to which Cas responded by pouring the whole thing down his throat and nearly choking to death.

Dean came out of the bathroom and picked up Cas's newly bloodstained trenchcoat, shaking his head. "What the hell, man. I just got this thing washed for you."

"I'll try to take better care of my clothes," the angel promised, eyes drooping. "Dean, I...I think I'm falling unconscious."

"It's called sleep, Cas. It's good for you."

There was only silence for a moment, as if the angel really had fallen asleep.

"Dean?" Cas's voice was soft and blurry from the rapid onset of his fatigue.

"Still here."

"I am glad you think of me as family," Cas murmured, eyes fluttering shut. He slept.


	4. Ascension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Castiel is chosen for a dangerous mission, he has no idea what lies in store for him.

"That's it. We're through!" Sariel's eyes gleamed dangerously as red light washed over the gathered angels. There were only a handful of them, as the main force was still assaulting the Gates. Seven had gone around as sappers, of a sort, while the battle on the front steps waged bright and bloody in distraction. Only now was the effort finally paying off.

They had broken into Hell.

Castiel gripped his blade tightly, anticipation making him fidget. He'd never been to Hell before, nor had he wanted to. Some places in the universe were best left untread. But when the higher-ups had ordered a siege on Hell...well, of course he'd taken his place in the lines. Most information had been withheld as to the reason, of course, but there were rumors that they were here to break out a soul-a very special, vitally important soul.

Dean Winchester.

Castiel had never heard of him.

"Let's go!" Sariel's voice cut through Castiel's thoughts. "We have only moments before the demons notice the breach!"

Blades in hand, the six other angels followed Sariel through the thin tear in Hell's outermost membrane. They would have followed the archangel, their general, into the seventh level if he asked it of them. All had been honored beyond words when they were chosen for the sapper force.

The place they entered was a nexus, of sorts. Extradimensional corridors snaked away into oblivion, branching infinitely to accommodate millenia's worth of sinners. Castiel shivered. Every fiber of the place oozed with malice and corruption. How were they supposed to find one man in this labyrinthe?

"Split up," Sariel ordered, glancing down each of the constantly shifting halls. "Go in ones or twos. Keep your blades out, and focus your thoughts on your target: a soul called Dean Winchester. This place should react to your search." His eyes slid back to his followers. "Castiel, with me."

A thrill raced down Castiel's spine at being singled out by an archangel. He hastened to comply.

They moved together through the cursed realm, passing through thousands of individuals' Hells in seconds. Demons noticed their presence, of course, but the angels were moving fast enough that they could fend off or lose pursuers. It was the souls that hurt Castiel the worst. In a handful of minutes, he saw more agony than he had in all his life. He saw humans, and things not quite human, suffering and screaming and begging for release. Many times, he was tempted to stop and help. Every time, Sariel pulled him onwards.

Even so, Castiel couldn't help but wonder what state this Winchester would be in once they found him. Some souls took only a handful of months to turn into demons, and Dean had been here forty years. Perhaps kidnapping a demon was the intent? Castiel shook his head; it wasn't his place to ask questions.

It seemed like an eternity passed before Sariel finally stopped before a locked door. The door, Castiel knew, was only an illusion, as was everything else he had so far seen. That didn't make it any less real, and the door was not going to let them through. He glanced sidelong at Sariel and wasn't encouraged by the deep frown etching the archangel's face.

"This shouldn't be here," Sariel murmured, eyes narrowing.

"Neither should you, love," drawled a voice to the right. Castiel whirled around, blade raised and ready to defend himself and his general.

Five demons blocked the corridor, forming a loose half-circle around them. Fear crept over the angel-this was Hell, this was the demon realm, and angels could die here. His silver blade felt light in his hand, a flimsy defense against the forces of evil.

The largest demon, who had adopted the form of a handsome, broad-shouldered human in his late thirties, smirked. "Don't worry, we've more on the way. We're just the welcoming party." He spread his arms wide. "Welcome to Hell! You're going to have such a good time here, you won't ever leave."

"You talk too much," Sariel announced, and let holy fire sweep from his fingertips. It twisted into a long lash, snapping and crackling as it hissed straight for the lead demon.

He batted it aside.

"Angel powers aren't what they used to be, eh?"

"Shut up," Castiel growled, then glanced nervously at Sariel. If an archangel's power wasn't enough…

Sariel seemed to be in deep thought. His voice brushed the other angel's mind, deep and commanding. _Castiel. We cannot defeat these devil-spawn here. I am going to use my strength to push open the door, and when I do you need to flee through it._

_But-!_

_Don't question me, Castiel! Get Dean Winchester to safety._

Castiel stared into a demon's featureless obsidian eyes. _Yes, sir._

" _GO!_ " roared Sariel, and white light burst from his form in a great wave of force. The demons howled in dismay, eyes burning even as they lunged forward to tear the two angels to shreds. The closed door swung suddenly open, and Castiel didn't hesitate before racing through the portal.

The moment he crossed the threshold, it swung shut behind him, cutting off the screams and sounds of the battle. Castiel was left alone in Dean Winchester's Hell.

Gray. Harsh, freezing winds. The smell of ozone, like the gathering charge of a lightning bolt. And everywhere, chains. There was no ground, no up or down, no way to orient one's self except the stretches of black iron links that reached on to infinity.

Castiel looked around himself, searching for signs of life. At first he saw none, only dead, raw meat swinging from rusty hooks. And then with a sickening lurch he realized that dead, raw meat wasn't dead, it was making short gurgling noises that might have been breathing. He could see now that it formed the rough shape of a body, if said body had been stripped of skin and most of its limbs. Then the bloody meat spoke.

The voice was rough and damaged, as if it had been hacked out of stone and never refined, but beneath the pain and mutilation it was deep and still somehow defiant. It struck a chord in Castiel, shaking him to his center - this was a man, a fragile human being, who had been tortured in the depths of Hell itself for forty years and yet still retained an identity. "Not more of you damn black-eyes," it growled. "You said you would let me sleep. Find someone else to cut up souls today."

Castiel remained silent, drifting closer. The tortured soul was horrifying, and piteous, and intriguing. How had forty years in this place not broken him beyond recognition? How had someone so strong ended up in Hell?

"Alastair? Is that you? I swear to God, I'm going to kill you one day. Like I killed Yellow-Eyes. Only I'll take my time with you."

Those words sounded recorded, as if being read from a well-worn script. This throat had uttered them hundreds of times in the past.

"Dean Winchester?" Castiel tried to keep any sign of his curiosity and, indeed, respect for the soul out of his voice.

"Who the hell are you?"

Castiel swallowed. He wasn't supposed to reveal his mission to anyone, not even his target. "Dean Winchester?" he asked again.

"Stop saying my name and answer the goddamn questions!"

That was good enough for Castiel. With only a minor sense of trepidation, he approached the flayed body on the meathooks. He felt a shudder run through Dean Winchester as he laid a hand in the approximate area of an arm or shoulder and took a firm grip. " **Ta a noko de Elo, ol elasa levare!** " Castiel's voice rang clear and strong with the Enochian words, shaking the bleak surroundings like a thin veil in a high wind. The area where his hand connected to Dean glowed with white fire, Dean bellowed in pain, and they were rushing upwards. Cas wrapped his wings tight around the damaged soul in an effort to protect him as Hell flew past. As they ascended, the broken, bloody form in Cas's grip began to heal, limbs reforming and skin growing smooth and unblemished over them. Finally, as they neared the surface, a face appeared to go with the name and voice of Dean Winchester: amber hair, sturdy jaw, dark lips, and piercing green eyes that just had time to open in confusion before-

Summoning the last of his strength, Castiel burst through the final layer of Hell and into the physical world, wherever it was that Dean's body reposed. In the expenditure of so much energy, the angel lost his grip on Dean's soul, which tumbled haphazardly away. Castiel could only pray that it found its body. The contact should be enough to heal Dean's physical form, and the rest...well, Castiel was exhausted. The rest was up to Dean.

He floated above the grave site, surveying the damage their entrance had caused to the surrounding scenery. Dean's headstone now lay at the center of a crater. Ah well. Couldn't be helped.

He knew he should report back to Heaven. He'd need to let his superiors know what had happened so that they could take action accordingly. Hopefully that action involved letting a certain angel named Castiel know what in the Father's name this was all about. It wasn't every day that a host of angels set out to rescue a soul from Hell, and it wasn't every one of _those_ days that the soul was someone like Dean Winchester.

Castiel remembered that voice, gravelly from abuse but still with a ring of defiance. He remembered those green eyes, so uncertain and confused. Maybe he should stay...maybe he should guide Dean Winchester until his superiors in Heaven came for him.

Maybe he should wait until he saw that proud face again and heard that strange, angry voice.

A hand, streaked in dirt and bloody from effort, thrust through the soil into daylight. Castiel smiled as well as he could without a physical body. _I did this._ He'd saved a soul. It felt good.

Tapping into the stream of angelic noise, he sent a message. _Let it be known,_ he called to his brothers. _Dean Winchester is saved._

Dean Winchester was saved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late? _Late?_ This word, it is not in my vocabulary??


	5. Shine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam walks in on Dean and Cas

"Hey, Cas, where have you been?" Dean shoved aside the mind-numbing Men of Letters files and stood to greet the angel. He received a familiar smile in return.

"Shopping. I brought pie."

Dean leveled a finger at the angel's chest. "Marry me."

Cas blinked, something like panic touching his eyes. "A-are you proposing to me?"

Color instantly flooded the hunter's face. "Wh- No! It's just a… Forget it." He cursed himself inwardly; of course Cas would interpret that literally. And now he'd just made their relationship an awkward blushing hell for the next few days.

He dropped his eyes to the marble floor of the bunker's entry hall, not wanting to see whether or not Cas, too, had gone red. There was the scuff of thin plastic as the angel set down the grocery bags he had been carrying, then soft footsteps to where Dean stood. Reluctantly, the hunter raised his gaze.

Cas's brow was crinkled in that adorable way he had of expressing concern. "Was that a fight?" he asked, genuine worry coloring his voice. "Because I know couples often have domestic disputes, and I've always found them horribly uncomfortable."

Against his better judgement, Dean had to smile. "No, Cas, if we're both in agreement it doesn't count as a 'dispute'. Trust me, you'll know if one happens."

The angel's face smoothed. An uncanny gleam replaced the worry in his eyes, and Dean felt himself grow warm again, though for very different reasons this time. "Perhaps," Cas suggested sensibly, "we should make out anyways. Just to be sure."

Dean tried to imagine where Cas had learned the term "make out". "Do you mean make up?" he offered somewhat weakly, as that intense blue gaze held him in place.

A slight furrow appeared in Cas's face again. "There's a difference?" His hands crept up Dean's arms.

The hunter's mouth quirked to one side. "Nah," was all he said. The heat of his body, the heat of Cas's hands on him, was quickly becoming overwhelming. His own hands came to rest very naturally on Cas's hips, fitting perfectly in the curve of his waist.

The kiss that Cas pressed to his lips was soft and careful. Dean opened it, eager for all Cas had to offer. The angel leaned into it with a sharp breath, pressing Dean back against a pillar and gripping his shoulders with fierce possessiveness. Cas's hands slid upwards, tangling in Dean's hair, while Dean's fingers crept down to tuck themselves in Cas's back pocket. The angel made a faint noise and bucked his hips as Dean took a firmer hold.

The heat of him, god, the sweet warmth of this body leaning its weight on him. Dean felt himself surrender to it, and he lost himself in Castiel. It wasn't the first time; Cas just had that effect on him. He would try to stay in control of himself, but every time they so much as brushed lips some sort of ravenous creature reared up inside his chest.

Cas angled his head back ever so slightly, drawing Dean's lip before pressing kisses to his jaw, chin, throat, ghosting downwards. One of the angel's slender-fingered hands began to work loose the buttons of Dean's flannel shirt, then moved in between fabric and skin. The garment slid to the floor, and those delicate hands were everywhere. Dean groaned softly at the attentions. "God, Cas…"

"Better than research?" Cas murmured, lips brushing the tender join of throat and jaw.

Dean made a wordless but no less articulate noise in response and returned to kissing his angel, own hands now seeking skin. Cas pressed harder against him, shifting his hips to grind against the front of the hunter's jeans. Something was building a tight coil in Dean's chest, coming to a head when he felt Cas toying with his belt.

"Dean, might I-"

"Cas, baby, I've been waitin' for you to ask." Dean's voice had gone soft and husky with want. He needed Cas's touch, Cas's hands, doing all the things his body ached for.

"Oh," came a voice from the stairs.

Cas's heat vanished from Dean's chest as the angel sprung backwards, alarm overtaking his features. Both of them whirled to see Sam standing at the top of the staircase, looking extremely uncomfortable.

"Dammit, Sam!" Dean swore, too angry to register that he was standing shirtless in the middle of the bunker, refusing to be embarrassed for getting caught with Cas. "You're supposed to be on a case!"

"And you're supposed to be doing research," Sam countered, ears red.

"Yes!" Cas gasped in desperation. "Research!" He vanished with the sound of wingbeats.

"Coward," Dean called after him, shaking his head.

"So, uh…" Sam scratched nervously at the back of his neck. "Were you going to tell me about this?"

Dean's jaw clenched. "Sammy, it's none of your damn business."

"I didn't mean it to sound passive-aggressive," Sam hurriedly apologized. "I was just...well." He stood there, fidgeting, for a moment. Dean hadn't seen his brother look this painfully awkward since the poor boy had asked out his first girl, and this softened his expression somewhat.

"If you don't mind me asking…" Sam said meekly, descending the stairs to stand near his brother. "How long have you- Uh, I mean how long-"

Dean rolled his eyes. "A week. See, this is why neither of us brought it up to you."

"Jeez. I thought you seemed unreasonably happy these past few days."

Dean waved a hand. "I had perfectly good reason for my happiness."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Apparently."

"Watch it, Sammy." He crossed his arms. "So, let's hear it."

"Hear what?"

"Well, you're either gonna get a good laugh over the fact that I'm all over Cas-"

"Do you hear me laughing?"

"-or you're gonna give me some shit about how it's too dangerous, or it's wrong, or-"

"Honestly, Dean, I've kind of been waiting for this to happen."

Dean paused mid-tirade. "What?"

Sam shrugged helplessly. "It was pretty obvious you and Cas had something, and you both were miserable because you couldn't figure that out. As far as I'm concerned, it was inevitable." A ghost of a grin shifted over his face. "And hey, anything that makes my brother happy makes me happy."

"You're serious?" Dean asked thickly.

An exasperated gesture from Sam. "What do you want, a blood-oath? Dude, you're allowed to be happy, and Cas clearly does that for you-"

The rest of Sam's sentence was cut off in a muffled grunt of surprise as Dean crossed the short distance between them to pull Sam into a tight embrace.

"What was that for?" Sam asked in confusion as Dean drew back.

"You do realize you basically told me to go have sex with an angel, right?"

"Oh god, too much information."

"Just wanted to say thanks for having my back."

"Uh-huh." Sam still looked vaguely nonplussed. "Oh, and Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Put a shirt on. Please."


End file.
